Precipice

His heart pounded in his chest as his fingers scrabbled frantically for a hold. Sharp rocks tore into his flesh, leaving his hands slick with blood as he slithered further down. Boot clad feet kicked and flailed for a foothold, to stop his slow, inexorable descent.

A flurry of small rocks cascaded into his face. He closed his eyes, shielding his face as he slid a few more inches, his harsh breathing echoing in his ears.

Another flurry, another scrabbling sound. A hand reached for him, snagging desperately at the edge of his sleeve.

"Hold on, Sam. Don't let go."

~*~

His heart pounded in his chest as his fingers scrabbled desperately for a hold. Slick skin slid beneath his fingertips. His eyes closed, unable to hold the fiery eyes that met his, knowing he'd lose it if he did.

He arched his head back, raising his arms above his head to brace himself against the hard, rhythmic thrusts rocking his body. Raising his legs, he wrapped them tightly around the trim waist as a calloused hand caught his cock and each thrust hit that sweet spot inside.

"Let go, Sam."

He opened his eyes again, held that gaze and came.

Overrated

Love's overrated. I figured that out a long time ago. It´s handing your heart to someone you can never really know, giving them the power to hurt you and then watching as they do.

I stick to sex. That´s overrated too. Sweaty, illicit fumbling with some strange man you pick up in a bar. Ultimately unsatisfying. Empty.

Yeah, I'm convinced. Others aren't. I watch as Chris flirts with him, all dimples and blue-eyes. Hopeful, even after all he´s been through.

He catches me watching, smiles.

“Hey, Backup.”

Sam smiles too, sweetly, then turns back to Chris and glows.

Love´s overrated.

Sex Tête

Was that it?

Somehow I thought there would be more.  I’m not stupid enough to believe that there would be fireworks or anything like that – I’m nineteen for chrissakes, not sixteen – but was that really it?  Less than twenty minutes from start to finish?

Talk about fucking disappointing.  And painful.

Oh, I knew it would be uncomfortable at first, but…

Oh fuck it.  Face it, Sam, you got screwed – literally.  I’m never going to have sex with a man again.  I’m going to stick to girls.  At least they don’t roll over straight after and start snoring.

Well, not usually.

*****

Shit.

Blame adrenaline.  Blame the brandy.  Blame anything but your libido.

You decided six years ago that men weren’t for you, so why the hell did you have to go and screw up now?

Or get screwed.  And by your superior officer, no less.

Must admit, though, it was better this time.

Much better.

Good in fact.

Oh, who am I fooling?  It was fucking fantastic.  Guess older guys really know what they’re doing.  Wish I’d known that six years ago.  All that wasted time.  Not that it’s going to be easy – being gay, being in MI6.

Being with Dietrich.

*****

Idiot, idiot, idiot!

A roll in the hay or two does not a grand passion make.

What now? 

Paste that expression on your face, the unreadable one, the one you hide behind when an assignment goes wrong, the one he calls ‘the mask’.

At the time he thought he was being complimentary.

Concentrate on the bad things.  The way he snores.  The way he picks his teeth when he’s concentrating.  Not the way that it feels to fall asleep in his arms.  Or how your heart’s breaking.

Learn.

Move on.

Don’t cry.

Go back to girls.

Forget Karl.

Die inside.

*****

New job, new deal, new partner.

He’s attractive – in a fresh-faced, clean-cut, all dimples and blue eyes, American boy-next-door type of a way.

But I’m sticking to girls.  And even if I wasn’t, I prefer mature not puppy-dog eager.

Not to mention gung-ho and without the sense he was born with.

And I’m sorry he has nightmares, but we all have our own nightmares so he’s nothing special, really.

Even if I have seen beyond that joker façade to something else, something more complex and complicated. 

Even if I slipped up and let him catch a glimpse past mine too.

*****

He’s trying to kill me.  If he’s not trying to blow me up he’s trying to give me a bloody heart attack.

Gung-ho, hotheaded, fool rushing-in, bloody Yank.  Car bombs, landmines, what’s next?  He’s suggested a dip in the pool here so what’s he going to find, a sea-mine?

Oh, he has his good points.  He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s good at his job.

He’s cute.

I can’t do this.  I worry about him and I’m not used to worrying about anyone.  I don’t want to worry about him.  I don’t want to care about him.

Oh fuck.  Too late.

*****

Someone remind me why I stuck to girls for so long.

I’m warm.  I’m comfortable.  I’m happy.

I’m loved.

There’s an arm thrown casually across my waist, fingers curled against the curve of my hip, his leg, still in its brace, crossed over mine.  A face, I presume, is resting on my shoulder blade as I lie on my front, my head pillowed comfortably on my arms.  I can’t see him, just hear him.  And you know what?  The snoring doesn’t bother me at all, a soft rumble against my skin.

He told me he loved me. 

I believe him.

Green Eyes and Ham

I could stare into his eyes for hours.  Lose myself in them, even.  There's just something about them, some quality I can't put a name to but that captures me anyway, holds me, drives the breath from my body sometimes just by the look in them.

They're grey when he's annoyed; cold and clinical.  A light grey-green when he's amused, sparkling and dancing.  Deep, fern green when he's aroused, intense, encompassing me in their mysterious depths.

They're grey now.

"For God's sake, Chris, will you please concentrate?"

Caught out daydreaming again, I can only stare hopelessly into those eyes – lost.

Dead Letter Office

Part 1

Bloody stupid idea of Malone’s.  Just so he feels he’s done something when he hands these to those we’ve left behind.

Left behind.  Sounds so… innocuous.

Here goes.

Chris

If you’re reading this, I’m dead.  Well, you always said I liked to state the obvious so I’ll state this too.  Whatever happened to me, it was my own bloody fault.  Blame yourself and I’ll come back and haunt you.

Save the world for me, mate, and know that I’m proud to have called myself your friend.

Sam

It would be cruel to say in death what I couldn’t in life.

Part 2

Sam…

Too cold.

Dear Sam…

Damn.  Sounds like I’m writing to my maiden aunt.

Love…

Honest, but hardly appropriate.

Sam

There’s so much that I wanted to tell you when I had the chance, but I guess my time ran out, huh?  Blame cowardice.  Yeah, me.  The one you said feared nothing, although you usually caveated that as ‘no fear, no bloody sense’. 

Guess I’ve got no excuse now, huh?

I love you.

I’m sorry.  For everything.  For not saying it sooner.  You deserved better.

Forgive me?

Chris

No.  I can’t do this to him.  Back to the drawing board.

Witching Hour

I shiver slightly in the cold night air.  It’s past the witching hour; anyone sane would be curled up in a warm bed.

But not me.

No, once again images, thoughts of people long dead have driven me from my rest.  I shiver again, my eyes fixed sightlessly on the ghostly white gravestones beyond dew-encrusted panes, but this time it’s not the air that’s chilled me.

It’s the past.

Warm arms are suddenly wrapped around me.  “Come back to bed, sweetheart,” a soft voice whispers to me, and the love in green eyes drives away the demons. 

Until next time.

Bah Humbug

Season of goodwill, my arse.  I watch from my window as people scurry home, laden down with brightly wrapped parcels.  Have they no conception of just how unsafe the world is, how fragile the status quo?  That only people like me, the ones they’d turn their back on in a heartbeat, keep it safe for them to indulge in such blatant consumerism?

The doorbell rings, and I turn away from my cynical ponderings.  Better not be bloody carol singers.

“Hey, Sammy.”  He bounces in, shaking snow from his hair, waving mistletoe.  “Merry Christmas!”

Might be something to this after all.

Fairground Attraction

Somebody explain to me why I thought this was a *good* idea.  My partner’s hopped up on candyfloss and adrenaline, laughing like a loon as he drags me from one death-defying ride to another.  His eyes are shining with childish excitement, his dimples flashing as he subjects me to this torture.

‘Say, Chris.  Why don’t we do something this weekend?  Together?’

I thought maybe something a little more restrained, something cultured, something, dare I say it, romantic.

I thought I might finally get up the courage to tell him how I feel about him.

I think I’ve gone to hell.

Warmth

She saunters smoothly past him, all long legs and slim build, blonde hair tossed artfully out of her eyes.  She slides her eyes sideways, glancing into his face with a secretive little smile and then she’s past him, confident in her allure.  It adds a slight swing to her hips.

He turns his head to watch her, giving her the once-over with a small smile of his own as he takes in the view, his cool green eyes appreciative.

Then his eyes meet mine and the coolness gives way to warmth and more.

No, I have nothing to worry about.

Fever

Cool fingers trace over my heated skin, sliding over parted lips that long for their touch.  Something wet, craved for slips into my mouth, forcing a whimper past my constrained throat.  I’m on fire, burning.

The hands move lower, swirling over the planes of my chest, bringing momentary relief from the fever consuming me.  I long desperately for each touch.

“Sam?”

I force my eyes open to stare into deep-blue ones set in the familiar face hovering over my own.

They’re worried.

“Sam,” he whispers.  “Stay with me, buddy.”

The damp, cool cloth returns, easing the inferno ravaging my body.

Lifting the Spirits

Bored now.

Been bored for hours.

Fucking lift, breaking down.

Sam’s no help.  He’s sitting in the corner of this metal rat-cage, watching me pace and sighing heavily.  When I looked at the hatch in the roof he started to get antsy, telling me the repairman would be here ‘imminently’ and I should just wait.  Probably didn’t want oil on his designer outfit.

That was over an hour ago.  Still bored.  Maybe I can try the hatch.  I’d have to get Sam out of his expensive clothes though.

Now, there’s an idea.  Definitely worth pursuing.

Suddenly I’m not bored anymore.

Elevate

He’s watching me and it’s making me twitchy.  I should be grateful that he’s stopped pacing the (small) confines of the lift and stopped bitching about being trapped here.  And I’m incredibly grateful that he decided not to clamber through the hatch because knowing his propensity for getting hurt the lift would probably have started moving, with him still on the roof.

I should be grateful for all of those things.

I’m not.  Because for the last fifteen minutes he’s just been sitting opposite me, watching me.

And smiling.

Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?

Love in an Elevator

He’s still watching me.

Thirty minutes on he’s still watching me and still smiling.  Only it’s not a mysterious smile anymore.  No.  There’s only one word to describe it.

Predatory.

I have a very bad feeling about this.

*

Sam is starting to look nervous.  Actually he’s been looking nervous for a while. 

Good.  Life’s suddenly getting interesting.

*

What’s he doing now…?

…eep…

*

Eep?  There’s a new one.  Never heard Sam say that before but I’ve never pinned him to an elevator floor before either.

I stare into startled green eyes, inches from my own.  “I’m bored,” I growl.  “Entertain me.”

Candy Schloss

It takes me three looks before I even begin to believe what I see in front of me.  I mean, it’s just surreal.  Straight out of a Hammer Horror movie.  At any second I expect to see bats swarming out of the belfry, or whatever those turrety things are called.

I turn to look at my partner but Chris, of course, looks like a kid in a candy store, grinning with transparent enthusiasm.

Wished I shared it.

“We’re staying here?” 

“Cheer up, Sam.”  His look turns considering.  “If you get scared, you can always come and sleep in my room.”

Incoming!

I hesitate in the doorway, knowing instinctively that something’s wrong.  I may not quite have my partner’s MI6 bred paranoia, but something raises the hackles on the back of my neck.  Something amiss, an unfamiliar smell, who knows?  All I know is that *something* is off-kilter.

I ease into my flat, all senses alert, and still I’m taken by surprise.

“INCOMING!”

He hits me full-force, knocking the breath out of my body and knocking me onto the couch, pinning me.  He grins down at me, his hair tousled.

“Miss me?” he asks cockily.

A playful Sam?  No wonder I’m off-balance.

Ties that Bind

I savour the slow burn as he fills me, stretching me as my body adapts to his girth.  I love this part of our lovemaking.  I love this position, face to face.  I pause in my descent, making him wait, making him sweat, beg, plead.

For me.

I have the control here, and he knows it.

His eyes are desperate, harsh, needy words falling from his lips as he struggles vainly against the restraints.

“Please…”

He may have been the sailor, but I know how to tie a mean slipknot.

I take pity on him, and let him slide home.

Moonlight Serenade

I watch him sleep.

It’s peaceful for once, no nightmares marring his rest.  His skin glows faintly in the moonlight streaming through the window, his eyelashes dark against alabaster pale skin.  He’s radiant.

My eyes roam over his body, mapping and memorising each line, each curve.  His chest rises and falls evenly with each breath and, as I watch, the hand resting loosely on the covers, pulled up to his waist, twitches and then relaxes.  He sighs, long and low, and I catch my breath, not wanting to wake him.  He’s resting easy in my arms. 

I watch him sleep.

Oral Fixation

I watch, fascinated, as he slips it in and out of his mouth with apparent enjoyment.  His lips are wet, glossy in the dim, evening light.  As I stare, transfixed, his agile, pink tongue darts out and sweeps the lingering taste from his lips.

And then again, he sinks his head, sliding the red tip past his waiting jaws, swirling around it with an eager tongue.

He catches me watching, and cocks an eyebrow, removing it long enough to grin at me, dimples showing.

“Wanna lollipop, Sam?  I’ve got more.”

I swallow heavily as he begins the routine again.

Tease.

Cool Fingers

Cool fingers tickle over my skin, following the line of my neck.  A warm tongue presses into the hollow of my throat, lapping lightly at the droplets of sweat gathered there.  The mouth moves, fastening over the juncture of my shoulder and neck, sucking hard.

I moan, my fingers knotting in the sheet beneath me, the sensation leaping straight to my aching groin.

The mouth moves downwards, catching tingling nipples, laving them to needy points.  I buck up into that wet heat as he sucks, hard.

Cool, green eyes meet mine, sparkling in amusement.

He enjoys this far too much.

Double Death Drabble

Grief claws at my insides, ripping, rending, tearing me apart.  It chokes me, smothering me until I can’t breathe through the pain of it, gasping, agonised in the cold night air.  My eyes closed, clenched tightly shut with pain, or open, leaking tears, makes no difference.  I see him; bleeding, shattered, blue eyes open, staring sightlessly up into the sky.

Oh Christ.  Oh Chris.  How could it go so wrong?  A simple op, a single, misplaced bullet and now I’m alone, bereft, shattered myself.

Grief claws at my insides until my fingers curl around the cool handle of my gun.

Untitled

I watch, fascinated, as a single drop of sweat rolls down his face, dripping onto his chest.  His eyes are closed, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.  The rhythm he’s driving is hard, pounding, demanding.  He’s losing himself in it and I’m losing myself in watching his face, caught up and entranced.

His expression is a mix of pain and pleasure as he reaches the climax of his efforts.  I find I’m panting along with him, urging him onwards.  He shudders and lets go, looks at me and grins, cocky and challenging, dimples evident.

Just another day at the gym.